Alive
by Kitt SummerIsle
Summary: How did the Twins became Autobots? - oneshot


******Title:** Alive****

******Author:** Kit SummerIsle****

******Continuity:** G1-ish****

******Character(s):** Sunstreaker, Sideswipe****

******Rated:** T****

******Warnings:** violence, angst****

******Summary**: How did the Twins became Autobots?  
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******Disclaimers: the usual. No OC, no owning it, just fooling around with TF******

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><p><strong>Alive<strong>

He was slowly loosing it, Sideswipe saw. Orn in, orn out in the arena, fighting, killing, recharging and starting it again; the only break in the routine when one of them had to be repaired and the other stood nearby, harassing the medic, demanding to know how he was and when he would be up again. They knew nothing of the world, nothing of politics and nothing of the coming war that loomed ominously on the Cybertronian horizon. They forgot what was to be free, to have a business, friends, to live outside, where the flowing energon, the torn metal and the havoc that they caused didn't exist. In and out of the arena they were wild, uncontrollable, hard and angry; hardly even speaking any more as there was no mech worth talking with and for them the bond was enough.

But Sunstreaker went down faster. He had always been the one going with his instincts and feelings - and what used to make beautiful art was now his undoing. He was loosing his meta, using it for nothing any more than keep track of the enemy – the unfortunate mech set against him in the arena, the unlucky medic who didn't get out of his way, the guard who dared to push him – and compute battle tactics, moves, hits, lunges. Gone was long the creation of art, the interactions with others, the victorious feeling after a win – and lastly it was gone even the communication with his brother.

Sideswipe realized one joor that he hasn't heard Sunstreaker's inner voice for orns. In the arena they didn't need communication, not any more, not for a long time; they moved like two bodies controlled by one mind, ready to take whatever challenge was thrown at them. But he hasn't been talking outside it either. There wasn't much they needed to communicate, as their orns were governed by routine and not set by themselves; even cursing and riling the guards got boring vorns ago. But now even the scant inner words with which they gave some tiny solace to each other were silent.

Sideswipe tried to talk to him, ask, shout, provoke but there was no answer. Just an irritated growl that a wild beast would give, one that has no processor, no memory-banks or feelings. The worst thing was that to the outside he hasn't changed, it didn't even show. He's been irritated, angry and short-tempered for as long as Sideswipe could recall; even his memory didn't go as far as 'before'. He wasn't even sure what 'before' signified, what was it, where, or why. Sideswipe wasn't sure if he was still Sunstreaker, if he was still there, under the ubiquitous rage that seemingly consumed him.

Maybe he wasn't. Not that Sideswipe could see it any more, not that he could find him, bring him out, not for a klik any more. Maybe there wasn't Sunstreaker any more. His spark felt its twin but only its existence… nothing more. Not a thought in the bond, not a glance in the angry blue optics, not a gesture or a word. Not when injured and vulnerable; not when glorious and victorious; not even when sated and satisfied. Gone. Only the mad warrior, the crazed beast remained.

The war has torn up the arena finally. Not Autobots in their goodness of hearts or for high-and-mighty ideas; not Decepticons for gains or vicious fighters to integrate into their army; just nameless, faceless missiles and cannon-fire that made short work of structures and mechs in their way. There weren't any rescuers or recruiters waiting for them when Sideswipe dragged his twin from under the fallen roof, bending the torn metal bars from his way and out of the cell. They took what they could use, from weapons to use through medikits in case till energon to last a few orns and climbed over the energon-splattered, mech-parts decorated, smoking, torn, grisly ruins. They had no goal or place to go, but they were going anyway, for staying was death.

Why they started in the direction they went, Sideswipe could never say later; was it instinct or just sheer cussedness that led them away from something, not towards, he didn't know. There were no faction avatars on the bombs, no ideologies and no reason for them to choose either even if there were; one side was just the same for them as the other. They went over the ruins of Kaon, fought when attacked, defended their lives and belongings from mechs scavenging among the ruins, robbing others if they had what they needed. No morals existed in the arena and no morals were required to survive in the war-torn, freshly battered-down, bleak remains of the town that suffered from the wrath of both factions, on top of its own lawlessness and misery. In this environment the twins were survivors by their very nature, fighting their way slowly but surely outside, leaving the smoking, reeking misery of the ruins behind.

Such survival would take its toll even on the sanest mechs – not that truly rational mechs could even survive in such circumstances. But they were already quite mad to begin with, so the ordeals had little such effect on them; Sideswipe doggedly went on, dragged his growling, wordlessly grumbling, madly fighting twin with him, even though he had no idea where they were going and why. He talked to Sunstreaker still, even though he expected no answer any more; and so he was shocked one orn when the so far empty cerulean optics turned towards him and the long-silent bond awakened and the inner voice told his designation again. At least he still recognized him, if nothing else…

Neither of them had a plan or even a hazy guess of what they should or could do. Anything that existed before the arena was lost in a fog that didn't want to rise from their memory-banks. There was a war that much they knew and saw; there were two sides in it that much they presumed; and it meant they could fight in it, that being the only thing they could remember doing. They never even realized when they crossed the frontline and reached a region not torn by constant battles. The ruins didn't change, the scavengers and the Empties were the same, the stray shots and occasional skirmishes stayed on; and they doggedly fought their way on and on without a reason other than refusing to give up.

They didn't notice the colour of the sigil on some of those they fought lately; it simply didn't matter. Anyone who attacked or stood on their way, or just had something that they needed was simply enemy. Nobody else knew where the two crazy warriors were going, although by this time their progress was marked on several tacticians' maps as standing – or rather moving - hazards, and they gained a notice to themselves as forces either to be reckoned with or capture if possible. They had every mark of battle-mad Decepticons on them except the faction logo but what they were doing hereabouts, nobody knew.

They stumbled upon a major skirmish this time, almost a battle; troops moved every which way, aerial support made strafing runs overhead and long-range fire laid down an impassable maze of danger all over the ruins. They hid in one until they could, but when a group of soldiers discovered them, it went the same way as every other time; close combat in which they were the unbeatable best. Only this time they had too many enemies to win; even though individually all were weaker, but numbers and firepower made up for it. After Sunstreaker went down Sideswipe too gave up and surrendered; bargaining for medical attention for his brother in exchange for knowledge that he didn't have. Never has it stopped him before, nor has it done so this time. Survival was more important than given words and truth.

They both came to in a cell, more or less repaired, rather more than less parted from all their possessions. It was strange, not having to fight for every inch of their way, not needing a shelter among the ruins from the acid rains, and getting however low quality energon but still sustenance, without a fight. For a while it was even pleasant to rest and think nothing – but in time they became bored, and with that pissed and angry. Especially Sunstreaker, who in one joor attacked the guard without provocation and forewarnings, surprising even his brother with it. He broke out of the cell, Sideswipe running after him as he scattered the guards on his way, shouting after him but losing it as he was tackled by the riled-up mechs of the base. His brother was brought back too to the cell some time later, injuries repaired again, out cold but alive. Or what passed for alive to him.

They were transported to another place, another prison. Then yet another one, dealing with bored, frustrated, angry and sometimes unconcerned, sneering guards who kept trying to contain them. Then once a higher-up came to their cell and they were offered a deal; and after some thinking Sideswipe accepted it. Anything to get out really, he thought, not even feigning an interest in what he was signing. They were cleaned up, marked by a faction logo, told the rules, transported to yet another place where an angry mech kept shouting at them supposedly for training. Sideswipe didn't care. He had his own rules and those were the only ones that mattered; and they could fight better in their recharge than the mech trying to train them.

In a while they were sent to a base and told who their commanding officer would be. They were introduced to some mechs who looked at them suspiciously and at whom Sideswipe glared back disdaining. They got orders, sent to battles, fought and survived. When not in a battle, Sideswipe amused himself with creating havoc and mess with the suspicious mechs. They got punishments for those and they didn't care. Nobody liked them and they liked nobody in turn. It wasn't required for survival.

"Sides?"

"Sunny!"

"Why are we Autobots?"

"Dunno. Turned this way after Kaon I guess."


End file.
